Page 28 of The Gilded Ones

This stipulation seems to calm Belcalis. “As much as possible,” she says, then adds, “but understand this: I will flee this hellhole as soon as possible.”

Britta’s brows gather. “Don’t ye want to be pure, then? ‘Blessed are the meek and subservient, the humble an’ true daughters of man, for they are unsullied in the face of the Infinite Father.’ That’s wha the Infinite Wisdoms says.”

Belcalis rolls her eyes. “You actually believe that dreck? Purity is an illusion. So is absolution and anything you read in that cursed book. You’d think you fools would understand that by now.”

My jaw nearly drops. I’ve never heard anyone talk about the Infinite Wisdoms that way before, much less about purity. I quickly glance upward, sending a quick prayer for forgiveness from the Infinite Father. Please, please, please don’t punish us for this, I beg.

I turn to the others. “Perhaps we should pray,” I suggest.

“If you’re so moved,” Adwapa says with a shrug. It’s clear she has no intention of doing so. Neither do her sister or Belcalis. Is there something about the Southern provinces that makes people defy the Infinite Father so?

I don’t want any part of it. I don’t want any part of anything that could lead back to that cellar – back to all that blood, that pain…

I’m relieved when Britta squeezes closer. “I’ll pray with ye, Deka,” she says, reaching out her hand.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I take it.

We silently pray together as we begin making our way towards the edges of the capital.

Our destination, as it turns out, is a series of isolated hills at the very outskirts of the city, just next to the wall. Night has fallen, so an oppressive gloom engulfs the caravan of alaki wagons threading towards the hill. Despite the darkness, I see everything perfectly: the large building at the top of the largest hill, its windows as small as pinpricks, its walls slick and red. There’s an imposing, almost ominous feeling about it, but that’s the way it’s designed. Those walls, those tiny windows – they’re as much to keep the inhabitants inside as they are to keep others out. This must be the Warthu Bera, our new training ground.

My mouth slackens at the sheer size of it. Those rolling hills, the lake in the middle – the Warthu Bera is large enough to house a village. In fact, it’s very much like a village, all those smaller buildings surrounding the big one at the very top. The only difference is, everything here is built for war. If I squint, I can see what looks like a sandpit in the distance and sharpened spikes jutting from the depths of the surrounding moat. I don’t have to ask to know they’re there for any alaki who thinks of escaping using that route. Lookout towers thrust from the walls, all of them swarming with armoured jatu. Our new captors. Keita and the others may claim that we’re soldiers with choices, but I know better. Even regular soldiers are punished for desertion, and we’re as far from regular as can be.

It’s an unpleasant thought, so I try to push it away as the gate opens and we cross the bridge to begin our ascent. Finally, we reach the courtyard of the largest building, where orange-robed middle-aged women are lined up beside a statue of Emperor Gezo. Shock jolts me when I realize they’re all unmasked, their heads uncovered, with what look like short wooden walking sticks sheathed at their sides. I turn my eyes away, overwhelmed by the sight.

Are these the women who are going to train us?

My tension builds, the blood prickling under my skin, as the wagons roll to a stop. “Dismount!” The cry echoes from jatu to jatu. “Release the alaki!”

When keys click in the wagon’s lock, Britta and I look at each other one last time.

“Be strong,” she whispers to me, her face pale in the darkness.

“You too,” I whisper back.

It’s still warm outside when we exit the carriage, joining the mass of girls gathered in the courtyard. Temperatures don’t plunge here the way they do in the North, it seems. The air is moist and tinged with a sharp, metallic odour. I don’t have to inhale deeply to know that it’s blood – cursed gold. After my months in the cellar, I can recognize the scent with barely a whiff.

My tension rises when a robust matron with a formidable chest separates herself from the group. She almost resembles a bull, all jutting brows and tiny, beady little eyes. I look down, unnerved by the sight of her unmasked face, and that’s when I notice the small, sunlike tattoo on the back of her hand, its bright red colour immediately distinguishable. A gasp wrenches itself from my throat. The ylm-kuru, the emblem of the red sun. The emblem of the temple maidens, those unmarried women unfortunate enough to be bound into service to temples and other places of worship.

Now I understand why all these women are revealed, their faces unmasked even in the presence of the jatu. They aren’t our new teachers, they’re the women serving them.

“Follow me, neophytes!” the matron barks, walking into the building.

I’ve never heard the word neophytes before today, but I know she must be talking about us. I fall into line behind the other girls from the wagons, following her through the massive archway. There’s that eclipsed sun symbol on the largest stone above the entrance, although it is beaten and weathered. A frown furrows my brows. Something about the weathering has changed the symbol, made it seem more familiar, like I’ve seen it somewhere other than on the Warthu Bera’s seal before.

But where?

“Hurry it along!” the matron bellows, rushing us down the steps into the bowels of the building, to an underground bathing chamber consisting of a series of tiled baths.

Assistants in yellow robes stand beside each bath, thin towels and sharpened razors at their sides. My heartbeat doubles at the sight of them.

“Disrobe!” the bull-like matron barks.

As we all turn, startled by the command, she fingers the hilt of the stick strapped to her side. We take off our clothes, all of us doing so swiftly to ensure we aren’t seen. My cheeks heat, my eyes dart to the floor, the ceiling – anywhere but to the other girls’ bodies. Even then, I catch glimpses: bodies of all sizes and shapes, some covered in hair, others smooth except for the hair on their heads – a few like the Nibari, with tribal scars or tattoos from the time before their blood changed into cursed gold.

I’m stunned by how different the other girls’ bodies are. Mother and I were never welcomed in the women’s baths in Irfut, so she’s the only woman I’ve ever seen fully naked before, her body dark and shapely like mine. Soon, only one girl remains clothed.

Belcalis.

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